


lay your head on me

by avinguda



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: M/M, post-Hockenheim 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 13:00:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20174665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avinguda/pseuds/avinguda
Summary: It's a good time—the best time Sebastian's had in a long, long while. For all the places he's jetsetted to in his career, for all the highs of driving for his dream, for all the vindication he feels now after all that's happened last year, nothing beats the feeling of coming back here, to Heppenheim, surrounded by all his family and all his friends, reveling in a win, commiserating a loss. (Nothing, except.)(or: Sebastian and Lewis, after the 2019 German Grand Prix)





	lay your head on me

**Author's Note:**

> "ok was anybody going to write a fic of seb taking care of/cheering up sick lewis after hockenheim or was i just supposed to write it myself" intensifies
> 
> **warnings for**: extreme fluff. like, _extreme_. close this tab already if you're one cavity short of needing a root canal. you've been warned.

They call it his redemption race. They call it poetic justice. They call it a confidence boost, propelling him back into form so that he can finally compete.

Whatever they call it, Sebastian's just glad that it's over with.

He rides back to his childhood home with his dad, celebrates with his family, catches up with his relatives, his little nieces and nephews who've been growing, growing. He drinks a couple glasses of his uncle's brew of lager, thinks it tastes as terrible as he last had it, as it's always been, and then drinks some more. He laughs loudly when they all break out into a chorus of a football chant his fans had made for him, teaches it to his _oma_ when she gets the words wrong trying to join in, almost regrets it when he succeeds and she doesn't stop singing.

It's a good time—the best time Sebastian's had in a long, long while. For all the places he's jetsetted to in his career, for all the highs of driving for his dream, for all the vindication he feels now after all that's happened last year, nothing beats the feeling of coming back here, to Heppenheim, surrounded by all his family and all his friends, reveling in a win, commiserating a loss.

Nothing, except.

"Where are you going?" his niece asks him when he slinks towards the foyer amidst the pandemonium, curious and perceptive the way only children can be.

Sebastian zips up his jacket—the summer wind has been chilly at night, this past week—reaches out a hand to ruffle her hair. "Just somewhere I need to be, _mausi_."

She looks up at him, tilts her head to the side. "Will you be coming home?"

Sebastian smiles. "Of course." He bids her goodbye with a peck on each of her cheeks, puts a finger to his lips to say, _keep this a secret for me_.

Sebastian doesn't usually drive when he's at home, too much lost time when he could spend it with his family, but he takes his car out of hibernation from the garage, plugs his destination into the GPS and sets off down the road.

The hotel parking lot is empty of people when he arrives; just the way he'd intended it. He parks his car and walks through the back entrance where only one security guard is stationed, but he's well acquainted to him by now and all they do is nod at each other at the door.

The elevator ride is short, quiet, and he spends it just looking out of the glass windows, into the expanse of the city. He loves Hockenheim at this time of the year, loves how the festival lights illuminate the Rhine, how the streets are littered with awestruck tourists. It reminds him of when he'd been a kid buying fresh _brezeln_ off the carts and getting his first kiss from his first girlfriend and thought that there was nowhere else he'd rather be, no other woman he'd ever love. He laughs at the memory; they're still both true, technically, but not in the way he'd thought they'd be when he was young.

He steps out into the hallway and trails his feet down a familiar path, punches in a passcode that he's already memorized by heart. When he opens the door, the lights are turned off, but the curtains are open to let the moon guide his way to where he wants to be.

He stops at the archway of the bedroom, leans his shoulder against the jamb with a soft sigh, watches Lewis' chest rise and fall with his breaths, even and measured, and although he has his eyes closed, Sebastian knows he's not asleep.

Sebastian says nothing, nothing there is to say. Instead, he pushes off from the wall and walks closer to the bed until he's standing right at the edge of it, facing Lewis, who's curled himself up on his left, but with enough space in front of him for another person to occupy; maybe on purpose, maybe by instinct. Sebastian would like to think it's both.

Sebastian tiptoes out of his shoes, climbs to lay down beside him on the mattress one leg at a time. Lewis doesn't move a muscle all throughout, but Sebastian doesn't expect him to; he knows what it's like to make a race ending mistake, knows how draining it feels even without the addition of being sick.

There are lines between Lewis' brows where he's furrowed them, his parted lips shades paler than they should be. Sebastian wants to smooth them out with his thumbs, wants to kiss them until they're pink and swollen, wants to breathe life back into him, but he doesn't; simply brushes the sweat-matted curls off of Lewis' forehead, feels the palm of his hand burning up from his heat.

"Don't touch me," Lewis croaks, eyes still closed, but it's too weak to be scathing, and Sebastian knows he doesn't mean it that way, besides. "You'll get yourself sick."

Sebastian has never been much good at avoiding things just because he's been told to, just because he should; it's how he and Lewis got together in the first place. He's not going to start now.

"I'm already sick," he says, only shifting closer until he gets them nose to nose, nuzzles his down against Lewis' cheek. "Sick with worry."

"I'm serious," Lewis murmurs, but Sebastian can feel him leaning into the contact, listing into Sebastian's body the way a ship is called to harbour. "Why are you here anyways? Shouldn't you be back home celebrating?"

For Sebastian, nothing beats the feeling of being home, but— "I _am_ home."

And Lewis finally opens his eyes at that, just a slight and slow flutter of his long, long eyelashes, before, "You're so corny."

Sebastian laughs softly. "Coming from you, that is a compliment."

Lewis huffs, breath fever-warm against Sebastian's chin. His eyes droop down again, like he's physically unable to keep them open, and Sebastian aches at how much he wants to make him feel better knowing that he can't; not right now, not really. "Just kick a man when he's down, huh?"

He says it as a joke, with one corner of his lip upturned, but Sebastian knows it's more than that; knows it because he knows Lewis, knows him as intimately and fundamentally as Sebastian knows himself; knows it because at the end of the day, they're more alike than they are different, so much so that sometimes Sebastian can't tell his feelings from Lewis' apart.

"So you had one shitty race out of thousands," Sebastian says, but there's no malice in it, and his knuckles skim gently down Lewis' neck to cover any doubt. "It is not the end of the world. I'm still here, aren't I?"

He means it in the sense that he'd returned after last year's humiliation, disappointment after disappointment painted in the colour red; he means it in the sense that he'd almost won this race from last place on the grid with barely a mistake, coming full circle, proving people wrong the way Lewis has been his entire career; he means it in the sense that he's still right here—with Lewis, for Lewis—and he's not going to be leaving him any time soon, if he ever really could.

And maybe Lewis gets all of that, because he says, "Yeah," and his lips stretch into a smile, small but genuine, "Still we rise."

"Now who's being corny?" Sebastian says, presses his lips against the corner of Lewis' mouth. "My handsome, corny boy."

Lewis tries to turn his head away, sluggishly lifts it up an inch, enough that Sebastian can slide his arm through the gap so that Lewis' temple is pillowed against it when fatigue calls to set it back down.

"I mean it, you'll get sick," Lewis says, but eventually gives up fighting, nestles himself against Sebastian's body, his forehead slumping tiredly against Sebastian's collarbone. "Okay. Just don't blame me if you underperform next Sunday because you've caught the flu."

"There will be plenty of other excuses to use," Sebastian says, and Lewis punches him on the chest for it, albeit feebly, has never liked it when Sebastian's been self-deprecating, so Sebastian shifts to, "But can you imagine the headlines? _Lewis Hamilton Spreads Viral Bug To Weaken Ferrari Rival_."

"Guessing they'll get the _how_ part of it wrong, like they always do," Lewis snorts, and then says, "And anyways, are you really that much of a rival right now?" means it in the sense of their racing this season, that he isn't, realistically; means it in the sense of their relationship, that he's so much more, and that's how Sebastian is certain that he's going to be alright.

"You are lucky you're sick," Sebastian says, just like he would _your car is unbeatable_, or _I still believe I can win against you with mine_, or _I love you_, "But you will pay for that later."

"Looking forward to it," Lewis says, just like he would _let's race wheel to wheel_, or _I'm ready for you to put up another title fight_, or _I love you, too_, "Seb?"

Sebastian brushes his lips against Lewis' forehead. "Yes?"

"You were amazing, out there in..." Lewis trails off, sounding halfway asleep, but Sebastian _knows_ Lewis, so he gets where he's going. "I'm really...I'm really…"

"I know," Sebastian says, tucks Lewis' head underneath his chin. "Sleep."

He's happy, too.


End file.
